It is always here


No matter how far I travel

No matter how many strangers I have  met

This is here my home

It is always here

As it is always you

The beauty elsewhere

The excitement elsewhere

The novelty elsewhere

My distraction could be a second even a minute

It is always here

And it is always you

In the end


Let me think


In the past – In the last year I said that loving you is self-redemption. You had saved me. Somehow. In the lost path of mine scattered with insignificant feelings. Then you came. Offering me a new world. Renewing my soul.

This morning I woke up with the most awkward, terrifying thought. Do I still need to love you now that I am self-redeemed, now that I am saved?

Not that I am an ungrateful person. Not that you had saved me then we are almost done. Loving you the last past year had proved to me how capable I could love, how intense I could become when I fell in love.

It made sense to me but then it’s fading. The love and you. So airy. So light. So distant. Suddenly that thought: And if I don’t love you anymore?

Could it be gone the love? Or it is just temporary? Let me think. Usually I don’t think when it comes to love you. Now I have to think to feel. Usually I just feel.

What happened to me ? Is it the cold ? Is it the long winter? Is it because of all the trips far away from home? Is it because I feel so free?

Is it possible that I don’t love you anymore ? Just like that. The self-redemption stays with me forever. Is the love gone ?

Let me think. Let me think. Let me think.

I still want to love you. I just don’t feel it. Today. This damn morning of winter.

White ice


Another country

Another beauty

A dry cold

Not a soul

Not a sound

Some boats passing by under the fog

My hands were almost frozen

Sometimes I heard in my head the song

You’d sent me in the morning

Most of the times it was me and the silence

The sky was so grey and heavy

If I could catch a ray of sun

I would wrap it in my frozen hands

And sent it to you in a postal letter

In an old way with envelop and stamp

I would like to bring you the flowers of spring

All I could see is white ice

Asking me to offer to you anyway

I would heat up the earth

To have you here and warm

Another country

Another trip

Same love

Same you




Visiting your country


Visiting your country

Without you

People were cold

They did not smile

Remind me of your smile

Our good times in your country

More sun than snow

Remind me of your warm heart

Different from everyone else

Visiting your country

Without you

Is realizing

Something is

Definitely missing

A life


My aunt in Nashville told me she had a friend who is a poet. She sends him from time to time my poems and texts. He reads and comments back to her. They play “teacher and student” with me, indirectly.

Yesterday my aunt sent me an extract of his thoughts. He wrote in Vietnamese, I read and tried to understand what I could. Roughly I could translate and share these few words with you. They were nicer than the ones I received from my girlfriends the other day, that was why I wanted to share. Though my aunt’s friend does not know me personally and through my blog, he can only guess parts of the reality.

Here are his words:

“…Someone with a soul like hers is …a lot of trouble. She does not fit in the society or the tradition (Vietnamese-style tradition). Her life is about traveling. Unpredictable life, surprises and novelties on her unknown way. She needs the freedom of the fresh air. She sunbathes without protection. Sadness and joy are unlimited. Giving selflessly without expecting anything back in a limitless love…

Living that way is knowing how to live. Living beautifully and living enough…”

Pretty nice, right?

It is funny, but there is nothing especially exciting about my life. But the small things in it, indeed, are nice. I think I am quiet and have simple pleasures. Mostly the capacity of enjoying simple things. I can be at work and look intensely forward to the evening just because I have my favorite TV show to watch. For instance.

Of course there is always that romantic limitless love. But I think I have made huge progress. I used to think and be like Anna Karenine for years. Now even my love is calm. It cannot suffocate me anymore. It is nice like anything else. Like the music I chose. Sometimes my love sounds like heavy metal waiting to explode. Sometimes it is just like the sound of a flute in an opera masterpiece.

Most of the time I am just very quiet and calm.

My life pretty much is like this picture. Not for the grey color. Not fancy either.  But for the calmness of this path close to a lake. Sometimes there are him and me. Sometimes there is just me. And always there is a love, bigger than both of us.